


Winter Giving Way to Spring

by Greeneyesthickthighs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, warm feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4828382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greeneyesthickthighs/pseuds/Greeneyesthickthighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a place for Jeyne Westerling, Jon thinks, as he watches her shiver and curl her arms around herself for warmth. Winterfell is no place for Southroners, they do not belong within its walls. But the would-have-been Queen in the North has arrived regardless, and with her comes Robb’s daughter.  - after all is said and done, Jon is surviving on duty, and the knowledge that he is not alone anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Giving Way to Spring

This is not a place for Jeyne Westerling, Jon thinks, as he watches her shiver and curl her arms around herself. Winterfell is no place for Southroners, they do not belong within its walls. But the would-have-been Queen in the North has arrived regardless, and with her comes Robb’s daughter. Cold winds from the north sweep her curls around her wildly, throwing back her thick fur hood, snowflake melting on her wind chapped cheeks. The last time this place housed Southroners, it ended with a war and the destruction of his family. Newly dubbed 'Stark' and still skittish to use it, the young Lord of Winterfell watches Robb's widow climb out of her carriage, holding small child dressed in grey on her hip, wrapped tightly in thick black furs. The men around her stare with unconcealed disgust, more likely to spit at her feet than bow to a woman who had once been their Queen. Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, brother of her dead husband, Uncle to her daughter, her good-brother by law, can only muster a small smile for her, but those who have been at Winterfell before her know their young liege lord is generous with bread but not with smiles.

Val takes his hand as they welcome her, twines their fingers together, and presses closer to his body. She is marking him as hers, he knows, the Freefolk way but she needn’t worry. Jeyne Westerling can barely look him in the eye, much less have any designs on beguiling him. 

Val is staking a claim, no matter the truth of their relationship, regardless of the awkward air that hangs between them most times. In truth, Jon knows not what he feels for his wife. He knows it is nowhere near what he felt for Ygritte, his dead first love, or mad lust for the Dragon Queen, or the powerless temptation of Melisandre, Stannis' red woman. He knows it is not any of those, but he hopes it may grow to be like the love between his Lord Father and Lady Catelyn, an outsider in this place same as Val. The north tried to protest his marriage, pushed their daughters in his path, but he held steadfast. He has sworn and broke too many vows to break this one. He promised Daenerys he was be a faithful Lord of Winterfell, would piece the North back together for her, had married Val as an act of faith in himself, and served his people well. He will never break his vows again.

(We are the watchers on the wall - I promise Robb, always you and I - I'll see you soon   
Bran) 

Val pulls him towards their chambers after dinner that night, she still refuses her own chambers, claiming it wasn't her way. He knew how desperately she wanted a child. She wanted someone in this place who loved her, truly, and whom she could love in return. So he let her push him on his back, kissed her sweetly, held her close, did his duty to her. If he spends too quickly, he kisses her sweetly until she shudders beneath his mouth, and grips his hair, twisting his dark curls in her fingers. He feels not only physical pleasure at their unions, but is pleased at the thought of a child. His family will survive through him, and he knows he has ignored duty far too often to not continue on his line.

After he spends in her, when she lies sated and sleepy beside him, he takes his leave. Val dozes unconcerned, far too used of his absences to be bothered now. She lies bare and pale in the firelight, she is true northern, born and bred in the cold winter chill. He takes his leave, wrapped in thin pants, a dark tunic and a heavy dark cloak, padding softly through the halls as not to disturb anyone else.

His first thought is the courtyard, but his feet carry him a different direction, toward a part of the castle untouched until now. These rooms, they hold memories for him that are much too painful for him to consider living in any of these rooms. The door he stops in front of is the old nursery, where little Rickon still slept before he died, where Old Nan rocked all of Eddard Stark’s children to sleep, where Lady Catelyn entrusted her children as they slept, where Lord Stark would sit in front of the fire and regale them with tales of giants beyond the Wall, and the old Kings of Winter and smile gently as each of his children took their first steps on the smooth wooden floor. 

He pushes the door open, wincing at the creak of the ancient hinges. A wooden bed with thick wool blankets sits unassuming in the corner, away from the frosted window. Swaddled within the white and gray wool, sleeps a young girl, no more than three years old. Her hair curls softly against her pillows but he doesn’t think it’ll shine with the same red tones as Robb’s had in the sunshine. Her brow is furrowed; rosebud mouth puckered against soft pale cheeks flushed pink, small hands curled under her chin. She is Jeyne Westerling’s daughter at a glance, but she is also Robb’s, the long sharp nose and her square Tully jaw. 

He can feel her in his bones, in his blood, a wolf howling for his pack. He can recall his Lord Father's voice clearly, as if he had spoken the words only yesterday, “The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” He is not the last Stark anymore, this girl carries his name, his blood, and one day his own children will carry on his name. The Starks would endure, as they always had. This was his family, his pack, he thinks, and the smile that appears on his face surprises him. He reaches down, careful not to touch his sleeping niece, and draws her blankets to her chin, watching her snuggle further into the warmth of her bed. The knowledge that Robb's child sleeps within Winterfell's walls causes something in his chest to crack, but there is warmth in him that has not been there for some time. It is not the heartbreak he is accustomed to, this is a melting of sorts, winter ice giving way to spring, giving way to rebirth, to the beginning of a new chapter. 

So Jon Stark returns to his chambers, pulls his to him, curls an arm around her warm body, and sleeps soundly for the first time in as long as he can remember.


End file.
